Black and White
by Team Jem Carstairs
Summary: John Watson sees the world in black and white, until Sherlock shows him a thousand shades of grey.


**Simple Johnlock sort of fluff. NOT angsty or bittersweet, which is rare for me. Enjoy, please review!**

**Disclaimer: Mofftiss. Just Mofftiss.**

John Watson was always taught to see the world in black and white. There was right and there was wrong. As a medical man, he was taught that there was the right thing to do, follow procedure, help but not harm, and there was the wrong thing to do, go off on your own and endanger lives. As an army doctor he was shown that there was the right side and there was the enemy. It was as simple as day and night, hot and cold, black and white.

It caused more than one argument with his parents when he was young. His parents both believed that the world was black and white, but their opinion was that Harry's sexuality was on the "wrong" end of the spectrum. John stood up for his sister then, saying that different wasn't always wrong, that it wasn't as simple as that, that she didn't choose her preferences and how it was wrong to punish her for them. Defending those who wouldn't defend themselves, you see, was firmly on the "right" end for John.

And this was all well and good until he met Sherlock.

John was able to categorize his friends (when he still had some) into a handful of categories: "Best mates", "might go out for lunch or coffee every few months", and "I can't figure out how to dump you". Sherlock transcended all of them. At times John thought they were closer than most married couples; at times all he wanted to do was punch him in the jaw.

Sherlock did not make it easy, and Sherlock was neither black nor white.

On an average day when there were no cases John would come home to his flat mate stretched languidly over the sofa, his lanky form draped in layers of cotton pajamas and that silk dressing gown. Occasionally there were no body parts in the fridge and the dishes were done; on those days John would smile to himself and think that living with Sherlock wasn't so bad.

It never stayed so nice, though. On those days, as though to make up for any kindnesses, Sherlock would irritably turn towards the door and snap, "We're out of milk again."

John would sigh. "You know, you could ask me how my day's been. Most friends do that."

Sherlock would groan theatrically and turn back to face the back of the couch. "And how _is_ a day in the very exciting life of Doctor Watson going?"

"Bloody awful, thanks for asking," John would say lightly, heading to the kitchen to make a soothing cup of tea. "Is 'no' an emotion? Because I feel it. We've got this new nurse, and I _swear_ she's about fifteen, she has no idea what she's doing. Nice enough girl but I can't stand over her shoulder the whole time. Add that to the dozens of hysterical people coming in for flu shots when they don't need them, purely because winter is coming–" He would sigh, the silence telling. "You're not listening to me."

"Sorry, were you talking?" would come the rumbling reply.

No, Sherlock didn't fit any sort of mold at all.

Not to mention that John constantly had to deny accusations that he was dating his flat mate. It wasn't that he was ashamed, because he wasn't (he never cared that Harry was gay, and if _he_ were he wouldn't be upset about it), it was just that John saw the world in black and white and in his world, he was decidedly Not Gay. You are Gay or Not Gay, and John knew he loved women, loved the way they felt in his arms, loved their softness and sweetness. Because he loved women, then, he couldn't be gay; therefore, he was publicly and adamantly Not Gay.

On one glorious winter evening, right after a difficult case was solved and Sherlock took his obligatory refractory period of one day to sleep for twenty hours and shovel food down his throat, the boys of Baker Street were awake much later than they would be normally. John went to bed around eleven or twelve and slept late when he didn't have to work. Sherlock, who oftentimes stayed up all night, was still adjusting his sleep cycle and would go to bed roughly the same time.

This night, though, Sherlock was practicing a new piece on the violin, and though it wasn't perfect, it was damn close, notes high and haunting, spiraling into the chilly air and floating away until they drifted into silence. John liked to watch, and so he did. Sherlock stood by the window, dressed all in dark colors, lit by the silvery light of the moon. His hair was dark as ebony in the low light and his skin glowed like it was lit from within. He was a study in black and white, just to look at him.

Sherlock was not an easy man to live with. He ran hot and cold, he stayed up to all hours of the night and slept all day, and he refused to fit into any categories John could think up.

Watching him that night, though, John started to think his insistence on categorizing was unnecessary. What did it matter? Everyone isn't perfectly black and white. Everyone doesn't fit into a nice neat box. People are what they are, in the end.

So that night, in the light of the full moon, John stopped thinking in black and white and starting seeing the world in a thousand shades of grey.

And that was the night he fell in love.


End file.
